A Baker Street Irregularity
by Anawey
Summary: I'm back!  First Phantom, now Sherlock Holmes.  Another awkwardly funny time-travel story.  Rated for ocassional swears, and 'rawr' moments.
1. Wait What Happened?

A Baker Street Irregularity

...

...

I'm back! First Phantom, now Sherlock Holmes. Another awkwardly funny time-travel story.

...

Disclaimer: I only own myself. Doyle owns anything that is at all related to the world of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

...

Wait... What Happened?  
XxX

_Me_

I was alone again.

I was often alone, but that was fine with me. I usually _encouraged _Mom to go to bingo, because she loved it, and I liked being alone every now and again. My grandparents had recently gone to live in northern Maine, and so, the house was mine until about nine thirty.

Currently, I was watching one of my Jeremy Brett Holmes episodes from Granada. It was 'The Dying Detective,' one of my favorite episodes, if only for how obvious the relationship between Holmes, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson is. That episode always made me smile, though I would have been more upset with Holmes than Watson was over such a deception, I think.

I just turned to look back at my laptop screen with the Sherlock Holmes story I was reading on screen, when it seemed that the room got brighter. I looked up at the t.v, and the picture was brighter. I picked up the remote and tried to dim the resolution, but it just got brighter, and I started to get confused.

The t.v got so so bright that I couldn't see anything, and then it got really dark, and I was sitting on the ground.

Yes, ground. Not couch, not carpet, not linoleum floor; hard cobble-stoned ground.

I think I about peed my pants.

I scrambled up, hearing a dull clattering, and realized my laptop was at my feet on the ground. I grabbed it up, and looked around.

"Bugger, where am I?" I muttered, turning and walking a few feet in a couple directions before finding a likely way out of the... wherever I was.

"Mom?"

I shook my head. It was useless to call for her; she hadn't been anywhere near home. So why would she be here, too?

_This _has _to be a weird dream, _I told myself, closing my eyes and pinching my arm. I opened my eyes again, and... nothing.

"Great," I whimpered. "Not a dream. Oh, Gods, where am I? Not cool, this is _so _not cool. Oh, man, oh man, oh man."

I came out into a really large courtyard-like place, where there were houses and other buildings on the outside of several roads that all ran out at angles from each other like a square with over-hanging sides.

I had no idea where I was; no place in Bristol, Ct. looked anything like this.

_Where in _Hell _am I? _

I was starting to freak. I'd always joked with my mom about time-travel, but this was beyond ridiculous. All I saw made me think of Victorian London, but that was bloody freakin' _impossible. _

There was a group of women standing across the street, and they looked like prostitutes. But then again, I didn't know the difference, so I couldn't be sure. All I knew was that I had to find out what was going on.

So, not quite sure what I was getting myself into, I walked over to the women.

One of them noticed me, and stepped forward.

"Lost, dearie?"

I had no idea how she could tell I was a female; I could barely see in this gloom. It was only because the group had hair bunched and piled up, and that it looked like they were wearing dresses, that I was able to figure out they were women.

But the one that addressed me was different from the rest. She looked older, kind and mildly concerned.

"Y-yes," I replied, the full implications of the situation hitting me full in the stomach. "I... I must have hit my head or something." I realized how bad an idea it was to say I was from a whole other time; I didn't want to get committed in some strange place where I knew no one. "What year is it?"

One of the other women scoffed.

"Ah, y' sure 'it your 'ead, cain't 'member wot year it es," she laughed, and I felt my face burn. It wasn't fair. I was clearly the one at a disadvantage; I was lost, alone, and had _no idea _how to get home.

But I was nowhere close to crying over things. Rather, I was getting angry

"Maybe she's daft!" someone else said. This third one sounded concerned, but the other four, except the first one, started laughing.

I guess it was obvious that I was not pleased, because the older-looking one, who'd spoken first, and seemed most friendly, took my shoulders and growled at the rest of them.

"Don' listen to 'em, duckie," she smiled, and I was reminded of my mom (not because she called me 'duckie,' but because she was always taking my side). "Come on, an' I'll buy ya a drink."

I shook my head as politely as possible; all this time had was beer and ale, and I didn't like either.

"I'm sorry, I don't drink," I said quietly.

The woman looked at me for a moment, and nodded.

"Right, duck," she said nicely, still guiding me toward what looked like a bar. "A soda, then."

I smiled.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said quietly.

"Here," the woman laughed. "Don' go ma'am-in' me, duckie. Names 'Ellen. Wot's yours, luv?"

"Destiny," I replied. I was starting to like the woman, really.

As we sat in the pub, finishing off our respective drinks, Hellen spoke to me again.

"Soon's we're done 'ere, Des," she began, "Oi'll take ya 'ome, git ya some noice dress, an' teach ya th' ropes. You'll be pro in no toime, luvy."

I could guess what she meant, and I didn't like to think of it. I finished my root beer, and stood.

"No, thanks. I _really _don't want to... uh..."

Hellen laughed.

"A'right, duckie," she smiled, standing and walking with me out to one of the larger streets in the area. "Good luck to ya, an' 'ave a noice life."

"Thanks," I replied. "You, too."

I watched her wander away, back toward her friends, when I realized, I had nowhere to go. I didn't know where I was, what I was doing here, or, most importantly, _how _I had gotten wherever the frick I was.

Hodamn, this was a _bad _situation.

I started walking along the road, but nothing changed. If anything, the area got worse and worse as I went. I was turning around when something human brushed against me.

I looked, and found myself staring up at a rather large, rather drunk – and therefore, kind of creepy – man, with several like creepers behind him.

If I hadn't peed my pants earlier, I was about to, now.

"Aw," the big one said, really close to my face (his breath _reeked_) "We got us a fresh 'un, boys. You're young, girly. New at it, are ya?"

For a moment, I was confused, but then I got it.

"Ew, no," I replied, without really thinking. I was rather scared, and when I'm scared, I don't think.

The group of goons laughed.

"Playin' 'ard t' get, are we?" the leader asked, grabbing me. "Gives us a kiss, girly."

He tried to kiss me, and I kicked out, catching him not in the balls as I'd hoped, but in the shin. It was still enough to give me a head start.

"Get the brat!" I heard the man howl. I didn't look back, but I could imagine he was hopping around and holding his foot.

Running is part of why I like wearing pants. That way, I can move quicker without having to worry about material tripping me up. Especially now, because I could hear the sounds of pursuit not far enough behind me.

"Oh, Gods, gotta run, _gotta run!" _I muttered, clutching at the pentacle around my neck.

I ran as fast as I could, ducking between the few people that were out tonight, and cut through an alley onto a small street. I kept running until I saw a likely hiding spot, and threw myself into the doorway, pressing against the brick, and holding a hand in front of my face to muffle my breathing.

I never heard the approaching footsteps. I didn't even know anyone was there until someone's hand touched my shoulder. Freaked out and really on edge, I spun round and punched out, landing a hit right in the guy's stomach, causing him to double over and drop on his knees, coughing.

But I realized quite quickly that this guy couldn't have been one of the ones after me. He looked like he'd be about their height, but he was a lot thinner than the group of creepers who'd been chasing me. And, he was more nicely dressed; tophat, greatcoat, and everything.

Also, there was something really familiar about this guy that I just couldn't quite think of yet.

Naturally, I started to apologize, but when he looked up at me, I thought I was going to faint, and pee my pants at the same time.

In other words; this _had _to be some really crazy dream.

"Crap!"

XxX  
Next chapter explains who this new guy is, though I'm sure you can all guess.

Review, please!


	2. Desi, Meet Your Heroes

This story, folks, is going to be like 'Phantom Encounters' in that the point of view switches. Don't worry, I won't make it difficult to discern. The name of who is speaking will head off their section.

And now, on with the story.

Holmes: Let's hope she continues to update this regularily. Unlike her other stories.

Hey!

Watson: *snickers*

_Hey!_

_..._

You guys are mean! I'm starting the story.

Desi, Meet Your Heroes  
XxX

**___Watson_**

Holmes had told me we would only be looking for proof that Wilkes was our man. I had not expected a chase through London's East End that night. Nor had I expected to hear the sound of a blow hitting home, and something dropping like a load of bricks.

I was also not expecting the voice I heard to be female.

"_Crap! I am so, _so, _sorry! I-I didn't realize who it was! I was kind of being chased, and I thought -"_

"Holmes!" I called, coming around the corner with my revolver drawn. In the weak light thrown by a lamp from across the street, I could see that it was a young woman, albeit strangely dressed, who stood over Holmes, apologizing profusely.

When I called out, she startled, and looked up at me, her eyes, wide and wild as they were, growing even more round.

She was young, that much was obvious. Even half-hidden behind a layer of bangs, it was clear she could not be much more than sixteen or seventeen years of age, and she looked terrified.

"Ohmyjeeze!" she gasped, jumping back, her eyes locked in fear on my revolver. I could see by her demeanor that she'd not meant to harm Holmes, and so, lowered the weapon, and moved to help my friend.

"Really," the girl continued, trembling. "I-I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm really, _really _sorry. I thought it was someone else, and -"

"Do calm yourself, girl, or no one will ever understand you," Holmes groaned as I helped him to his feet. "You've quite a strong right jab."

I could see the confusion on her face, and realized that the child must know very little of boxing.

"Thanks, I guess," she said quietly. "I really am sorry."

The girl wore strange pants, with zippers on either leg that went about to the knee, and there were strips of plaid material sewn onto the black. Her shirt, too, was outlandish, with a strange picture of a man with frazzled orange hair and an oddly fashioned top hat on it.

I felt for the lass. It was clear that she was quite lost, the way her eyes continuously darted about our surroundings without a hint of recognition. Her accent marked her an American, and as such, it was more than likely that she'd never been in London before.

"Perhaps we ought to bring her back to Baker street," I suggested to Holmes. "Poor thing is quite lost."

Holmes nodded, and I saw the girl's eyes light up.

"Baker street?" she repeated, and innocent, and rather endearing eagerness in her voice. "Oh, man, this is so _incredible! _You guys are _famous! _This is so exciting!"

She was all but bouncing, and I began to fear that Holmes and the child would not get along, but then she governed herself, and looked at us with almost complete composure.

"I really am sorry for punching you, Mr. Holmes," she spoke softly. "I honestly believed you to be someone else. And thank you both for letting me come to your home. It's an incredible honor to meet you."

Some of her previous excitement resurfaced in her eyes and in her smile at that point, and I found it charming, in an innocent, child-like sort of way.

On the ride home, Holmes spoke to her in calm, understanding tones.

"Now, my dear girl, what is your name?" he asked with the barest hint of a smile. "You know us, yet we know no more about you than the obvious; you type, dabble in music, you are right handed, draw, and come from somewhere in New England, most likely Connecticut from your accent."

I saw her eyes widen momentarily, and then she smiled.

"So it's true," she whispered. "You really can... _wow... _My name's Destiny Bullard, Mr. Holmes. And it really is great to meet you both."

"And, it seems, it is a pleasure to meet you, as well," replied Holmes. "You must explain your presence and what brought you here, as it is clear you have never been to London before."

But Miss Bullard shook her head and smiled slightly.

"Actually, I've been here once before, but that's a long story."

Holmes looked at her expectantly, and motioned for her to continue.

Our female companion took a deep breath before speaking.

"First of all," said she, looking seriously at Holmes and me. "I'm not mad. Whatever I say, I'm not crazy."

Her words sounded foreboding, and I wondered what she could say that would be so outlandish.

"I'm not from this time," Miss Bullard whispered, looking down. "But I can prove it," she added swiftly. "You guys see my clothes, right? They're not like anything here, are they?"

She motioned to her leg, and to her chest, indicating the shirt, and strange pants with the zippers and straps of plaid.

"They're made on sewing machines that are really advanced by the year 2010 - that's my time, the two-thousands. I know I sound completely bonkers, but it's true."

Now, she opened the black rectangle box, and showed us a keypad not entirely unlike that of a typewriter below a screen. Upon the screen were many small pictures arranged in rows to the left of the screen, with captions presumably explaining each picture.

Holmes reached for the device at Miss Bullard's nod, and examined it closely.

"What is it?" I asked, looking at it myself.

"It's a computer," the girl replied. "It's really advanced stuff, so don't ask me how it works. All most people in my time - myself included - know is _that _it works. There _are _special groups that can fix problems with it, but I don't know the technicalities of it. So, if it breaks, I've no clue how to fix it."

"And your clothes?" I asked after a moment's hesitation (I'd no idea if the question would seem improper to her). "Do most females dress like you, then, Miss Bullard?"

I must explain that, fantastical as her story sounded, I could not help but believe it. Miss Bullard had proofs. Her clothes were unlike any in the world, and the computer contraption Holmes had just returned to her was far beyond anything that could be made by engineers in these days.

"Please, no 'Miss Bullard,' Dr. Watson. Just Destiny is okay. And no," our new friend answered, shaking her bangs-covered head. "Most dress a lot more revealingly. They wear short pants to here," - she placed her hands on her thighs high enough to be scandalous were that much leg shown - "and I've seen shirts with the neckline down to _here -" _

Her voice was dripping disgust as she touched her stomach, and I could appreciate the feeling -

"with only the way the fabric flows to cover the breasts. Grant you, that's only the really rich and/or famous who wear things _quite _that bad. Most girls just dress in obnoxious colors, shorts, shirts with only straps, and little annoying thong sandals called flip-flops. I'm actually dressed rather modestly for a teenager in my time."

**_Holmes_**

That the girl was intelligent was obvious, despite her rambling personality. She spoke with a confidence that was rare in her sex, and admirable in one so young.

But it was quite clear that she did not belong. She had a manner of speach that was quite different from normal, though by no means incomprehensible. She had spirit, I had to admit. Not many females would have thought, upon finding themselves suddenly in the company of an unknown man in the middle of London's East End in the dead of night, to strike out. On the contrary, I'd been in such a position before, and the unfortunate woman had fainted dead away. Clearly Destiny, as she insisted upon being called, was not like ordinary women.

Her story, strange though it was, had to be believed. I had often said that when the impossible was eliminated - the impossible being that she was just confused, or, perhaps, mad - then the remaining explanaition, however improbable - the improbable being that the girl had been sent through time - must be the truth. Not only that, but she had proofs. Proofs that could not be denied, but would be difficult to explain in most situations.

Her manner was certainly interesting. Open and honest, she spoke without censure, but without crudeness. Someone had taught her class, then. As she and Watson spoke about her far-away time, I listened, while effecting the appearance that I noticed nothing of what was said by looking out of the carraige window. In truth, I wished to hear more of her talk, and better gague her personality.

She talked with Watson about the inventions and advances of her own era, her brown eyes shining. And yet, that light was not as bright as when she spoke of her attraction to _our _time period. Indeed, she seemed to adore our Victorian age, and often lamented its passing.

"I _wish _people still dressed like this -" she motioned out the window at the few pedestrians who walked by - "in my time. I _love _the Victorian era. It's like magic, in some ways; the gaslights, the horses and cabs. I wish I'd been born here."

Watson disagreed.

"The advantages of your time must surely out-weigh any such things, though. You've mentioned the scientific advances, what of medicine?"

Our little friend laughed lightly. "Yeah, that makes sense. but the medical things are really advanced. We have a vaccine or cure for nearly everything. Smallpox, Malaria, Polio, Tuberculosis, we can even treat cancer. 'course, it isn't always effective, but it works pretty well."

"Good heavens," Watson exclaimed. "Quite remarkable. And what of the more common illnesses? Colds, influenza, and the like?"

Destiny shrugged her slender shoulders once more in an off-hand manner.

"They keep popping up, but they're a lot easier to treat. Even pneumonia's not so deadly as it used to be.

"And surgery's evolved, too. No one dies because of the initial surgery, unless the doctors screw up and do the wrong one, which does happen, but only _very _rarely. All the information and filing stuff is electronic in my time, so it's easier to get things confused and criss-crossed... I think. I'm not really that good with technicalities and the mechanics of the stuff in my time, I just know that for the most part, it works."

Once more, the girl shrugged and offered us a smile.

She perked up of a sudden, and began to speak once more.

"Oh! Also, in my time, humans can _fly! _I mean, not on our own," she added at Watson's absolutely incredulous look. Indeed, it seemed an impossible concept. "There are these great big metal things, called planes. They run on this really high-powered gasoline, like what cars in my time run on, but worlds stronger, and there are all these seats in them, and a person pilots the plane from the front, and it's shaped somewhat like a giant bird, and you can get from New York City to Zurich, Switzerland in six hours because of them."

"Absolutely incredible," Watson laughed, shaking his head in obvious wonder. And the things she spoke of _were _quite remarkable. "Have you heard any of this, Holmes?"

"Indeed, every word," I replied. "And I must say... Destiny, that your era sounds fascinating."

"Well, thanks," she chuckled. "We who live there enjoy it."

**_Me_**

I _really _couldn't believe this was happening. And yet, it had to be. Never had I _heard _people's voices for real in my dreams, never had I _touched _and actually _felt _the ground. This _had _to be real. The greatest thing was that they _looked _like I'd always imagined; Mr. Brett and Mr. Hardwicke. Holmes and Watson looked _exactly _like the Granada interpretations, save that Holmes didn't look quite so sickly as poor Jeremy Brett had at the end.

But I was so excited. I had been sent to my favorite time period, and met two of - if not _the - _biggest fictional heroes in my life.

And I was in a horse cab, going to _221b Baker Street!_

No one at home would _ever _believe this.

_Maybe I could use it on fanfiction, _I thought to myself.

"Entertainment's evolved, too," I thought to add, grinning. "You know how they have that... that cinematograph thing... I think that's it... in France? In 1895, the private screening done by the Lumeire brothers?"

"Ah yes," Dr. Watson nodded. "Motion pictures."

I smiled. That also gave me an idea of the year. It had to be at least 1900.

"That's it. In my time, it's advanced so far that we have sound, like you can hear the people talking, and the screens are small enough to be in people's homes. The pictures are sent somehow through a signal that's caught by some mechanism in the back of the screen, which is called a television, and then the signal re-scrambles into a picture."

I thought about what I'd said for a moment, and groaned.

"That probably didn't make a lick of sense, and I'm sorry," I sighed. "But like I've said, the technical-ness defeats me. I barely passed high school math and science, for cryin' out loud."

At their looks I nodded.

"Oh, yes. Senior year of high school, grade twelve, I was in anatomy, construction, civics, and geography and cultures. And only in construction were females among the minority. I know the common idea in this time is that women are a lot more fragile, and thus, the more complex stuff like politics, and building, and all that sort of things, are supposed to be beyond us, but that changes. In my time, women in the US vote. We've had a female run for president - she didn't win, though - and there are women in England's Parlaiment, and oh! the US's president is a black guy. Racism almost doesn't exist any more, compared to southern USA now."

"I think it would be grand to see such a world," Dr. Watson commented. I agreed.

"If I ever figure out how I got here, I'll take you guys back with me. Promise."

"We've arrived," Mr. Holmes announced, and I glanced out of the carriage window to see Baker Street.

It, too, looked just like Granada's version, and when we met Mrs. Hudson just inside the door, my first thought was; _Holy crap, Rosalie Williams!_

To tell the honest-to-the-Gods truth, I was beginning to think I'd died and gone to Summerland, because meeting _Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, _was a dream of heaven.

We explained everything to Mrs. Hudson, who looked a bit dubious, but couldn't deny the fact that my clothes _couldn't _have been made in this time, or the presence of my laptop. But she was more than nice enough.

"There's a spare room at the top of the stairs, dear, across from Mr. Holmes's room," she offered. "I trust you'll be comfortable there."

I nodded.

"I'm sure of it," I said politely. "And thank you."

Oh my Gods, I was on cloud-freaking-nine!

XxX  
Chapter two!

Holmes: Chapter three better be up shortly after this, or Watson and I shall lead the readers in a revolt against you.

Watson: ...I didn't agree to that...

*shrugs*

If you guys lead a revolt, I won't be able to write, and you'll be stuck here longer.

...

On second thought, PLAN AWAY ! *cackles quietly*

Review, please!


End file.
